


Sweet Sister

by hejustlikeshoney



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: this is bad but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 15:02:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14451795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hejustlikeshoney/pseuds/hejustlikeshoney
Summary: An examination of life and the power of love.





	Sweet Sister

Tousled brown curls are spread over the pillow, and the chest rises and falls with each breath.

A tall glass of water sits on the end table, an unlabeled bottle of a strangely-colored tonic next to it.

“Up, sleepyhead, you promised we’d go out today!” Ippolit shakes the sleeping figure softly, but she flings her arm back and slaps him in the face hard enough to sting.

Ippolit takes a step back from the bed, alarmed. “Hélène!”

The woman in question rolls over and groans, frustrated. “Not this early, Lito!”

Ippolit approaches the bed again as Hélène rolls to face away from him, and cautiously climbs in behind her. 

“Leeeena,” he sings in her ear, startling her again.

Hélène pushes Ippolit off the bed and nimbly scales his fallen body, crossing the room to her wardrobe. She wears nothing, her skin glows in the morning sunlight. She pulls a thin silk robe over her form and begins to peruse her day clothes, while Ippolit sits up on the floor and silently observes, as he’s prone to do. 

“Would you like to pick my outfit today?” Hélène turns to face her brother, her head tilted to the side, a quizzical look on her face. Ippolit beams back up at her, signaling an affirmative answer.

Five minutes later, he’s settled on a vivid green dress with black lace detailing on it. The color is much too bright for Hélène’s taste, but she agrees to wear it for her brother’s sake.

“Now, let’s find Anatole.” Hélène, now fully dressed, strides down the stairs, Ippolit trailing close behind her, almost like a puppy.

“Good morning.” Anatole meets them at the foot of the stairs, giving Hélène a peck on the cheek and pulling Ippolit into a tight hug.

“I promised Ippolit we’d go and skate on the pond today, so you’ll have to stay home and deal with Father.” Hélène leads the trio to breakfast, pulling her own chair and sitting down before the others.

“Thanks.” Anatole’s sarcastic reply receives a threatening glare from his sister, causing him to back off.

He looks a little pitiful when they leave him behind after breakfast, off to the little pond in the small stretch of woods on the northern end of their estate.

The brother and sister skate hand-in-hand for some time, until Ippolit decides to sit on the fallen log nearby for a while.

Hélène lets him go, but continues to skate around the lake, sometimes calling Ippolit’s attention when she attempts to do some sort of spin.

One time is different though, and she slips, the thin ice cracking under the sudden impact of her body.

It’s the most terrifying moment of Ippolit’s life as he watches her slip under the water and disappear. He sits there for a moment, utterly horrified and unable to move before he realizes he has to do something. 

Ippolit rushes back onto the ice and reaches in to pull the shivering Hélène from the icy water. Her velvety black coat drips with the stuff, so Ippolit offers her his own, which she gratefully takes.

“Y-You saved me, Lito. Thank you!” Hélène throws her arms around her brother and buries her face in his shoulder. She’s lightweight enough that Ippolit manages to carry her back to the house, where she is immediately separated from Ippolit by Anatole as she is dragged to a hot bath.

Not a day goes by when Ippolit doesn’t think back on that day and what he did. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but then again, he doesn’t talk about much. The situation worries him. There may come a day when something happens to Hélène or Anatole and he’s completely helpless to the situation.

The day comes sooner than Ippolit expects.

. . .

Tousled brown curls are spread over the pillow, the form concealed by bloodstained sheets pale and unmoving.

A tall glass of water sits on the end table, an empty unlabeled bottle meant for a tonic next to it.

Ippolit can feel the dread in his stomach, threatening to send up his breakfast.

“We’re sorry, Prince.” The little maidservant gives a quick bow and scurries from the room. 

For the first time, Ippolit sees his sister has slept in clothes: a simple black nightdress adorns her figure, soaked with sweat and faintly stained with what Ippolit can only identify as blood.

Instinct causes him to walk over to the bed and climb in next to her, reaching out to stroke her hair as salty tears stream down his face.

She’s cold to the touch, and it seems almost foreign, save for the softness of her skin which makes it unmistakably Hélène.

“Lena?” Ippolit’s voice is quiet, and he expects no response.

Naturally, he doesn’t receive one.

He clutches her arm tightly and doesn’t let go. He spends a solid hour lying there, next to her lifeless form, until his father arrives and gently pries him away, equally tearful.

Ippolit feels almost guilty as he stares at the body of his sister on the bed. He had saved her once before, but had no such luck the second time.

He wants her to wake up, to come back, to tell him he hasn’t failed as he thinks he has. She lays there, lifeless, and he’s pained by his inability to read the expression on her face, to see what her last thoughts were.

She had answered every question he had asked in her lifetime, given her insight on every situation. Now, with so many unanswered questions, Ippolit isn’t sure where to begin.

He leaves the room feeling empty.


End file.
